Moments
by clarembees
Summary: Moment number five: Munch doubts that Rollins could want him, until they find themselves outside his apartment, and she shows him they're on the same page.
1. Chapter One: Hello World

_Author's Note: I've always loved those "Five in One" fics, so I figured I'd try my hand at one. My Muse has been non-existent, to put it mildly, but hopefully this will **really** pull her out of her funk._

_Also, since we still don't know much – if anything, really – about Rollins (other than she transferred from Atlanta) all info about her background comes from my imagination._

**Title: Moments**

**Summary: Four canon moments between Munch and Rollins and one AU moment.**

**Rating: T**

**Pairing: John Munch and Amanda Rollins**

**Chapter One: Hello World**

_**Sometimes I feel as cold as steel/Broken like I'm never gonna heal**_

"_**Hello World - " by Lady Antebellum**_

At this point in his career, to say he had been around the block would have been an understatement of the highest order. Hell, he had tried to take the Sargent's exam the _first _time in – what – the _early 90's_?

Now he had those damn stripes – that in the grand scheme of things didn't mean shit (or at least what he thought they would all those years ago) – on his badge, and he had an additional thirteen years at Special Victims to the twenty he had put in back in Baltimore when he was working homicide, so he was prepared for the depravity that he volunteered (yet again) to subject himself to.

What was on these DVDs from the slimy miscreant Fin and Olivia had hauled in, _couldn't_ be any _worse_ than what he'd already seen. So he figured he'd do his good deed for the year and spare the kid (Amaro) and the charming Southern Belle (Rollins) – both of them newbies to this beat – the horror and the atrocity he knew he'd be faced with.

Amaro seemed like a cool customer, like he could keep himself under control, but _everyone_ had their limits. Everyone had to snap at some point. And anywhere from six to ten hours of footage of little girls dressed up like living, breathing dolls and forced to perform sexual acts (they were too young to understand), could make even the _coolest_ of the _cool_, reach their breaking point.

And he didn't want to be responsible for the kid reaching his. Once it happened, there would be no going back.

As for Rollins...Honestly, he didn't want to see her face after such a viewing. Like Olivia and like Kay back in Baltimore, she worked hard at keeping up her shield of indifference, of hardness. She was a woman in a man's world, always fighting to prove herself, to show that she could hack it, that she wouldn't be _emotional_.

Her Kewpie features would be bathed in abject horror, an almost inaudible gasp would fall from those pastel lips, a gently curved hand would cover her face and a sad shake of her head would make a few glossy strands of platinum fall from her messy bun. Her clear eyes – so wide, so emotional – would fill with tears that she wouldn't _dare_ let fall inside the squad room. Pastel lips would tremble. A swan-like throat would swallow hard.

God, had _he_ ever been _that_ young? _That_ naïve? Sure, neither was a rookie just out of the academy, but this job had yet to affect them the way it had affected him. They still had some shred of innocence, some miniscule iota that there was still good in the world.

But he knew better. He knew – even before he sat down to watch hours upon hours straight of little girls being molested in pretty dresses – that men were little more than animals in suit coats and leather shoes. He was seconds away from going off on an internal rant, when he heard the knob to the viewing room turn.

Filling the doorway with her alluring, lithe shape was none other than Rollins. His severe brow arched in a questioning manner; silently asking what she was doing. He thought Fin might pop his head in, tell him to give his bony ass a rest, Liv would gently coax him to take a break with those wide, emotional eyes of hers, the Cap would stride in thinking he could still "order" him, maybe even Amaro would take a stab at coming in, ready and willing because that's what kids – and that's what _he _was, a _kid_ – do.

But he didn't think he'd see glossy platinum hair, pastel lips, and clear green eyes.

Those pastel lips curved slightly as she stepped further into the room, gently shutting the door behind her. Without preamble, but grace that shouldn't be allowed for a cop, she slid into the chair that was right next to him and on the table, she put his black mug down.

The heady, thick smell of coffee wafted to his nose and again, he arched his brow.

"You've been at this for a while, so I thought you could use that. And don't worry," She assured, her drawl more pronounced; its softness floating to his ears like a string of notes tumbling off a master piano player's fingers. "It's fresh."

"Didn't peg you for an ass kisser." The sarcasm, his first instinct, his defense mechanism, falls off his lips like the harsh crack of a whip.

If she's offended, her Kewpie features don't show it. Instead, to his surprise, she reaches over and lays her hand on top of his. He's struck – and it's hard not to be – when he looks down, at the contrast between her hand and his. Smooth, alabaster skin almost with the sheen of a pearl covers the wrinkled, tan skin of his own.

"You don't have to do this alone." She's leaning just enough that her breath – minty and cool – skates along the side of his face.

Her drawl loses its softness when she pulls back. "I've got a good eye. My Daddy told me so when he first taught me to shoot when I was about as high as this table."

He doesn't laugh. He's about to tell her no, to send her off to compile phone records, take statements, canvas, but she stops him. "I can handle this."

Her voice is firm, assured and her clear green eyes darken with determination.

Shaking his head, his voice timbers with an honesty he can't ever remember hearing from himself before. "You don't _want_ to handle _this_. You don't _ever_ want to get to the point where you can _handle_..." His voice trails off as he motions to the screen, and in a gravelly tone, laced with disgust, he finishes, "_This_."

"You may think you're there, Sargent," She muses, pushing herself out of the chair. "But you're not."

He scoffs at the audacity behind her statement. She doesn't know him from the Man in the Moon.

_Note: The Kay Munch refers to in this is Kay Howard who was a female detective he worked with during his Baltimore homicide days. If you didn't know, the character John Munch was originated by Richard Belzer on the NBC show Homicide: Life on the Street that ran from 1993 to 199._

_Also, I wanted to add more to this, but I think it works best with just Rollins' last piece of dialogue and then Munch's reaction. Let me know if you think I should have added more if you liked it as is._


	2. Chapter 2: Untitled

_Author's Note: This chapter is left untitled because I couldn't come up with a title. Yeah, I know that's pretty lame._

**Chapter Two**

Rollins hadn't done much – if any, really – undercover work back in Atlanta. Sure, she played the pretty girl at the bar or the wife and sometimes the girlfriend, but that stuff wasn't like _anything_ that she had just done.

They had this disgusting SOB of a pimp who raped and cut up his girls when they _dared_ to leave him dead to rights, when his smarmy lawyer came to his rescue. So Amaro and Fin with their connections in Narcotics set up an undercover operation, and she was to play the bait.

And that's how she ended up here...In the locker room, on her knees in a stall, gripping the porcelain with white knuckled hands like some _rookie_ faced with her first dead body. She could her own voice – sans Southern drawl – telling James (the pimp) all the things she'd do for him and the big money customers she'd draw in, how she'd increase his profits...How she was looking for a new Daddy.

_Wretch._

Just when she thought she was finished, she could feel her stomach seize and then spasm and then it would start all over again.

_Gag._

Finally, she she fell back on her heels, body trembling and eyes streaming. Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she rose to her feet and flushed the toilet before stumbling toward the main area with the row of sinks.

_Get it together_, an angry voice hissed in her head. _You're better than this, Amanda. Get your ass cleaned up, dressed and go interrogate that prick with Benson._

When she looked up into the mirror that hung above the sink, she froze; unable to recognize the face staring back at her. Gone was the platinum hair that matched her mother's, in its place was a bright red wig cut into the style of a bob, her clear green eyes were missing too; contacts had turned them a deep, rich brown, and even though she couldn't see her whole reflection, she could see the top of the black leather halter mini dress with the plunging neckline she was wearing.

Once again, she heard her voice from during the sting echo in her head..._The name's Missy, and I'm looking for a new Daddy...One who'll be good to me...Who I can be good to..._And for a split second – when her stomach seized – she thought she might throw up again, but she managed to keep the bile at bay.

Tearing at the wig and dropping it wear she stood, she shook her head back and forth as hard as she could, the bobby pins falling out and her own platinum hair tumbling down to just above her shoulders. Next, she popped out the contacts and left them on the edge of the sink. Half way to the door, she thought about changing, but did it really matter what the hell she was wearing when she told that prick how he was going to fry?

No, it didn't, she decided and so she pushed open the door. She was finally in the right frame of mind, when Munch's voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Unless you plan on being arrested for indecent exposure," He quipped. "Or collared as a lady of the night by Vice, you'll want to change before you leave."

"_Leave_?" Her voice was raw as she spun on her heel to face him. "I'm _not_ going anywhere, Sargent. Detective Benson and I have a murderer and a rapist to put the screws to."

"Actually, _you_ don't. Today's sleaze bucket du jour has been booked and is being processed at the tombs as we speak."

Suddenly, she felt like the room was spinning and like she had been punched in the gut. While she had hid in the locker room throwing up, Benson was interrogating James and now the most decorated detective in the unit – not to mention Fin, Amaro, the Captain and probably even the man she was standing in front of now – thought she was a grade A flake who couldn't handle this beat.

She didn't know what came over her, but with all the force she could muster, she took a stiletto heeled foot and kicked at the bench that was just outside the locker room.

Hot, angry tears burned her eyes, which went wide when she felt a pair of strong, calloused hands gripping her wrists.

How long they stood there, she didn't know, but the silence between them was deafening.

She swore she could hear the heavy pounding of her heart in her ears like the slow, steady beat of a snare drum. She stood, stiff as a rod, just waiting for him to either let go or say something, _anything_.

When he slowly released her wrists from his grip, he came and stood in front of her. His eyes were hidden behind those dang glasses he always wore and she had the urge to rip them off, so she could read the emotions – if there were any – inside his eyes when he talked to her. It would make it so much easier for her to know just what he was thinking.

"_That_," He said, pointing to the bench she kicked. "Is a great way of breaking your foot, and unless you want to be riding a desk for the foreseeable future, I suggest you find a more _productive_ way of releasing your pent up frustrations or stress. You won't last long if you keep this up. _Every_ case is like _this_. They _all_ get to you, and you _always_ want to be alone with these perverted miscreants, to watch them squirm, to show _them_ what being a _victim_ is like, but all that will do is get you transferred out and on the Rat Squad's radar. And I sincerely doubt, that's why you came up here from Atlanta."

"You speaking from experience?" She questions, arching a perfectly tweezed brow.

"A gentleman," He remarks, his voice hinting at his off-beat humor that she's come to know. "Never kisses and tells."

She can't see his eyes, but she swears just like his face, they've softened. "Shower, get changed and go home. You did good work tonight. Without you going under, there's a chance we'd all still be spinning our wheels and maybe this thing could have turned into a red ball where we'd be stuck here for days on end."

Her stomach flutters, which is an odd reaction, to being patted on the shoulder, and as he walks back into the squad room, her pastel lips curve into a faint smile.

_Note: When Munch tells Rollins this case could have turned into a "red ball," that's what he and his colleagues back in Baltimore called cases that were seemingly never ending._


	3. Chapter 3: Beneath the Mask

**Chapter Three: Beneath the Mask**

After nearly twenty-five plus years as a detective, Munch is not nearly the hot head he used to be.

Gone, is the angry man craving the respect he never had as a tormented teenage geek who was used as a punching bag his entire adolescent experience. Now he's always in control of his emotions. He remains cool and unaffected no matter how sick and depraved the crime is that he's investigating.

There's no more slamming his hand on the table. No more finger jabbing in the chest. No more getting in the face of a suspect. Or slapping them around to "jog" their memory.

He left that behind during his first few years in Baltimore.

Now it was all about out smarting the miscreants; something he was made for. Because when it came down to a battle of wits, he was heavily armed. Physically, he hadn't been able to hold his own against his tormentors, but mentally was another story. He ran circles around them.

Criminals were even easier than meat head jocks.

But that didn't explain him losing it inside the interrogation room with Rollins.

Maybe it was looking into the mother's cold, dead eyes. Or it could have been her utterly bored and flippant response of, "So," after he and Rollins went over the gruesome details of her daughter's injuries and how because she had been thrown from a two-story window like a rag doll there was a highly unlikely chance that she would ever walk again.

The final straw, though, had to be her sigh of seemingly grand sacrifice before she asked, "Her not being able to walk or whatever, means I gotta take care of her all over again, don't it? Like, she's a little baby and not a grown-ass twenty-two year old? Cause I don't have my _own_ life now?"

Before he knew it, he had practically leapt from the chair he had been lazily sitting in. He was staring directly into those unfeeling, dull brown eyes, his breathing heavy and his heart racing.

"You're concerned with _your_ life?" He had screamed, the timber of his tone boiling with anger and disgust. "Your _daughter_ might not _ever_ walk again! Doesn't that mean _anything_ to you? It isn't _enough_ that she's endured _years_ of physical and abuse at the hands of her dead beat boyfriend, her ability to move her legs, has to be taken away from her as well? Do you hear yourself?"

He didn't stay to listen to the insipid woman's response; he stormed out, slamming the door as hard as he could and with his head down, he walked all the way up to the roof of the building, which is where he was standing now.

For the first time in too long, he wished for the days when he was part owner of The Waterfront with Lewis and Bayliss. If he owned a bar now, he could drown his sorrows in all the free beer and bourbon he could handle and just forget.

Or if he hadn't quit smoking, he could enjoy the bitter, heady taste of nicotine filling his lungs.

And if this was an even earlier time in his life, he could roll up some dope and revel in the mellow escapism he had once savored like gold.

But none of those were options for him anymore; particularly the latter. Though, he could always _pay_ for the beer and the bourbon. However, he was unsure of how he would react to being the kind of drunk he wanted to be. He'd never admit it out loud, but on more than one occasion he had found himself at the mercy of his own gun; just like his father had been, only he never managed to succeed in pulling the trigger.

His brooding didn't last much longer as the door to the roof opened. If the soft, rhythmic footfalls didn't let him know who had joined him, the freshly sweet smell of coconut and kiwi did.

"Thought you said you were at the point where you could handle all this?"

"Throwing my own words back at me," He remarks, his tone biting and bitter. "Is this the part where I say touché?"

She laughs softly as she shakes her head. "Never thought I'd see you lose your cool like that."

Scoffing, his tone hasn't lost any of its bite when he tells her, "Savor the memories then because the odds of that happening again are as likely as the truth about JFK's assassination finally being revealed by our illustrious and always truthful government."

"How about you just tell me if you're all right?"

Her voice is small, but he can hear the genuine concern inside, and a shiver races up his spine. He turns and faces her for the first time since she appeared on the roof.

His usual sarcasm is on the tip of his tongue, he has the perfect quip in answer to her question, but to his surprise, he swallows the typical response.

"You've got better things to do then concern yourself because I lost my infamous cool in your presence, I'm sure."

"Actually, I don't, so you gonna tell me if you're all right? Or am I gonna have to pry it out of you with the Jaws of Life?"

"I'd expect a sweeter, nicer bribe in return for spilling my guts from a Southern Belle such as yourself, Rollins."

"Pick your poison, Sargent," The smile on her pretty pastel lips was downright salacious, and another more intense shiver bloomed through his body. "And I'll see what I can do on such short notice."

He swore his heart actually _stopped_ beating in his chest. Was there _really_ a flirty intent behind her words and inside those glimmering clear green eyes of hers?

Swallowing thickly and as discretely as he could, he wiped his suddenly sweating palms on his trousers.

Distracted by the combination of her nearness and her fresh, sweet scent, he shook his head and said, "Maybe some other time."

The salacious smile on her lips disappears as if it was never there and something his imagination had conjured. Her clear eyes aren't as bright as they were; the teasing glimmer fading away just like the warmth.

She takes a significant step back as her alluring, lithe shape stiffens ever so slightly. With tight lips, she nods, but doesn't walk away just yet. She lingers before asking, "You _are_ all right, though, aren't you, John?"

He's never been startled by the sound of his own name before, and why would he be? He's heard it an infinite number of ways; tenderly, laced with the bitter strain of a marriage gone wrong, in the throes of passion, angrily, threateningly, patronizingly, in a friendly way, with the tone of exasperation and so on and so on.

But the way the syllables meld together and pour off those pastel lips like the threads of well spun silk in that Southern drawl, is a way he's never heard it before.

And a slow ache builds inside of him as he wonders if he'll ever be privileged enough to have his name pour from her lips in such a way again.

"Yeah," He assures after what seems like hours of staring straight into the clear depths of her green eyes. "I'm all right. Some things, like that mother's _**complete**_ lack of compassion and sympathy for her _own_ daughter, you never get used to; even if you've seen _everything_ I have."

"Glad to hear it."

Her bright smile diminishes the ache briefly, but watching her walk away has it stirring inside of him again. The slow, unintentional swish of her small hips and how the dark denim of her jeans hugs the curve of her bottom, don't go unnoticed as much as he tries not to stare.

Her drawl, draws him out of the trance she unknowingly put him under as she pauses at the door to the roof, "Have a good night, Sargent."

His lips curve slightly. "You too…" Her last name is set to tumble off his tongue, but instead it's her first. "Amanda."

There's a warm peach tint that seeps into the flawless alabaster of her perfectly sculpted cheek bones while her pastel lips bloom into what has become – in just months – her familiar beaming smile. The smile stirs something inside of him – pride because he put it there (or at least thinks he did), warmth, - he's not sure what, but it's something he hasn't felt in so long, it's as foreign to him as speaking Spanish.

But he can't deny that he wants to feel it again.

Just like he can't deny that however unintentional it is, he's letting her see beneath the mask he's put on for so long.

_Note: The end feels like it got way sappy – especially for Munch – let me know if you thought it was too much. Ugh._


	4. Chapter 4: Beauty In The Breakdown

_Author's Note: I know it's been a while since I updated this, but the Muse got all wonky and every time I tried to write this installment, it just wasn't jelling the way I wanted it to, so I took a step back to work on other fics._

_The beginning of this may sound like Olivia at the end of last week's episode, "True Believers," but I think working a beat like SVU – with what the detectives see day in and day out – could make a young cop like Rollins feel similar to a veteran like Liv._

**Chapter Four: Beauty In The Breakdown**

Rollins was tired, and it wasn't from running on too little sleep and relying on that rush of adrenaline to push her through the long hours the job demanded. This kind of tired ran deeper, settling into her bones, weighing her down. It made her skin tingle like little currents of electricity were coursing down her arms, and when she looked down she saw her hands were shaking, and she couldn't make them stop.

Sinking back against the row of lockers, she closed her eyes, trying desperately to relax so when she walked back out, no one would notice just how keyed up she was.

She didn't know where this feeling was coming from. She sure as hell didn't feel like _this_ back in Atlanta. She'd seen plenty in her ten years on the job, but she was able to leave it all behind when it came time to pack it in for the night. For whatever reason, she _couldn't_ do that here. No, these cases – the victims, the disgusting perverts, all the gruesome details – they _stayed_ with her. She couldn't just leave them behind.

Her stomach seized as she thought about the case they caught a few days back. A boy who was _barely_ twelve bought a gun off some dealer in his apartment building, so he could kill himself because he couldn't handle his own _father_ touching him anymore.

Her eyes stung with the saline of tears as she struggled to breathe. Maybe she just wasn't cut out for Special Victims. Maybe homicide was more her style. No live victims, no gruesome details, just cut and dry, simple and easy; find the low-life murderer and put 'em in the hole and you're done.

Swiping her eyes, she told herself she could have five more minutes. Any longer and the rest of the squad would notice she'd been in here a long time and start to wonder just what the hell she was doing in there. Five minutes would be enough time to pull herself up by her bootstraps like her Daddy taught her, to get it together, to put that smile on her lips and make sure her eyes matched it.

_Just five minutes._

But when she looked down at her hands, they were _still_ shaking.

She didn't hear the door open. She didn't hear the quick, sure footfalls of his perfectly shined patent leather shoes as they moved across the locker room's floor. She didn't hear _anything_ except the echo of that little boy's mother's screams when she stood with her in autopsy so she could identify her son's body, until he said, "You can come out now; everyone's gone home including the Captain."

"I'm fine." She said through tightly pursed lips. "You don't have to walk out with me to be sure, Sargent."

"Who are you trying to convince, Rollins?" He looked at her pointedly over the rims of his dark glasses. "Me or you?"

Her silence said it all.

Pushing himself away from the opposite row of lockers that he was leaning casually against, he moved to where she was sitting. Holding out his hand, he motioned to the doors with his head, "Come on. I'll take you home."

"That's really not..." She started, but he interrupted, his world-weary features softening just like his voice. "Don't waste my generosity. It's like The Great Pumpkin or the Easter Bunny; you know, it only comes around once a year. Get up, you're riding with me."

"You don't take no for an answer do ya?" There's just a hint of her bright smile he's come to recognize playing at her pastel lips.

"I'm considering this my good deed for the year, so you're right, I can't take no for an answer."

The ride to her apartment was silent. As he pulled into a visitor's space in the parking lot, she asked, "You comin' up? Or do you think I can make it up the stairs on my own?"

"That depends; do you want to hear what I have to say in my car? Or would you feel more comfortable in your apartment?" He gave her the same pointed look over the rims of his glasses from earlier in the locker room.

"I guess you're comin' up then, John."

She meant to call him Sargent or maybe even Sarge like Amaro had taken to doing, but instead his first name tumbled from her lips. She felt her stomach dip and a shiver race up her spine from knowing that he was right behind her as they walked up the steps to her second floor apartment since the elevator was busted.

"It's not much," She warned, her cheeks flushing for some reason as she let him in. "But its home, you know? If there's one thing my Mama and Nana made sure I knew, it was how to make the best of what ya got."

"If you think _this_ isn't much," He quipped, looking around the space, which looked quite lived in, despite her only being in the city for a few months. "You should see Fin's apartment; to call it _sparsely furnished_ is an understatement. It's like he thinks he's still working Narcotics. If it weren't for a few pictures of his son, you wouldn't know an _actual_ human being lived there."

"That's probably how he likes it; not a lot to fuss with. And with this job, can you blame him? It's not like any of us are really home all that much, anyway."

"Speaking of _home_," He emphasized the word, making it clear that he wasn't talking about her apartment. "Is our resident Southern Belle missing her native land?"

She laughed as she shook her head. "Nah. Last time I got homesick was my first year at summer camp when I was seven or eight."

Sitting down on the navy couch in the living room, he said, looking straight into her clear green eyes, "Don't think you're not cut out for Special Victims; cause you are."

"Am I?" She whispered, feeling extremely vulnerable in this moment. She'd spent her entire career proving herself to every CO, every partner, fellow officer, and fellow detective, so vulnerable was not her style. Being vulnerable meant you were weak, that you couldn't hack it, that you were better off doing a job that wasn't meant for women.

"You're more than just a good cop; you're a good cop who can handle this beat. I know what a cop who can't handle this looks like. When I first got to Special Victims, I lost two partners because everything that comes with this beat, got to be too much for them. You're not them; trust me."

"What do you do when you feel like you can't handle it anymore? When you can't just push the stuff you see everyday out of your head cause it's time to close up shop for the night?"

"We'd be here all night," His lips twist into a wry smile. "If I told you about my extensive list of hobbies."

"You're a real renaissance man, huh?" She didn't know how, but he actually got her to _laugh_.

"More like the definition of." He remarked as he leaned back against the couch.

She laughed again and it was like the invisible weight she had burdened herself with was slowly being lifted away. Her cheeks flushed when she realized she hadn't offered him anything to drink. If her Mama and her Nana could see her right now, they'd probably haul her over both their knees and give her the whoopin's she got as a little girl.

"I should've asked you this as soon as we walked in, but would you like something to drink?"

The sight of a warm, peach color seeping into her alabaster skin, had his stomach twisting. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had blushed in front of him. Hell, he didn't think women _still_ blushed these days.

"I'm good." He assured before turning his attention to the Scrabble board he noticed was set up on her coffee table. Picking up a small tile, his wry smile was back as he questioned, "Scrabble?"

"Yeah." The peach flush of her cheeks was deeper. "There's a girl across the hall; she's thirteen, maybe fourteen?" Her small nose scrunched as she tried to remember her opponent's correct age.

"Something like that, and her parents work late – they're both lawyers – so I offered to keep her company, and we started playin."

"You're a better person than me." He chuckled. "I would have left that kid to her own devices, and just made sure I was perfectly clear when I told her not to touch anything I didn't explicitly tell her was okay to touch."

"She's a good kid, and it's fun. I _loved_ Scrabble as a kid." Her clear green eyes sparkle with the warmth of happy memories. "My brother hated it, though. That's why I always loved visiting my Papa; my Mama's Daddy, he loved to play too and we'd stay up for hours."

"You up for a game? Not to brag or anything, but I was the best Scrabble player in my neighborhood as a kid."

"You sure you can stay? It's late..." Her voice trailed, unsure if he had someone at home waiting or not.

"And I don't have anything better to do."

"You're on then."

An hour later, the young detective and the seasoned Sargent were engaged in a rousing game. He was impressed with her skill, and she was a little disappointed he wasn't as rusty as she'd hoped.

Looking down at the board and then back at the four tiles she had remaining, she bit down on her lip in concentration, wanting to be sure of her move before she made it. Taking a sip from the beer, she gave him just as the game started, he taunted, "If you want to forfeit now, it's perfectly understandable."

"Not so fast, Sargent." Her pastel lips bloomed into a victorious smile. Placing her last four tiles after the word gender, she recited the word happily, "Gendercide; known as the systematic killing of members of a specific sex. Looks like I win."

"You suck." He spat bitterly, taking another swig of his beer.

"Awww, come on, don't be a spoil sport. We could always go best two out of three?" She offered, Kewpie features hopeful and smile bright.

"I doubt you have enough beer for that." He cracked a warm smile that had her shuddering.

"So I'll see you in the morning then?" She felt like a schoolgirl with a crush on the teacher as she accepted his empty beer bottle, their fingers brushing ever so slightly.

"I'll be there with bells on."

Standing in the doorway, neither was sure what their next move should be. Deep brown eyes hidden by the lenses of dark glasses stared into unobstructed clear green. Her heart pounded against her ribcage like the slow, steady beat of a snare drum and his palms became uncharacteristically sweaty.

She leaned in just a little further, her lithe frame inches away from his lanky one. Rising on her feet, the curve of her breast brushed against the perfectly pressed fabric of his pin stripe shirt, making him close his eyes as her smell of coconut and kiwi wafted to his nose. Her lips touched his cheek, her own cheeks flushing deeply when she pulled back.

"Have a good night, John." She husked out, lips tingling from the contact with his skin.

"You too, Amanda." He murmured, leaning in to touch his lips against her cheek.


	5. Chapter 5: Never Was Too Smooth

_Author's Note: I originally set out to write four canon moments for Munch and Rollins, but to quote Kurt Hummel from this week's Glee episode, "The First Time," I am a silly romantic, and I couldn't leave them with only the cheek kissing, especially since I know they'll never kiss on the show._

_This moment plays off something else I know will never happen on the show, them going undercover together. The title comes from the Billy Joel song "Get It Right The First Time," which just screams Munch to me; you know if the show ever let him fall in love._

**Chapter Five: Never Was Too Smooth**

_**Just let me pull myself together/I've got to give it one good try**_

"_**Get It Right The First Time" - by Billy Joel**_

Suspects, if Munch is honest, don't really affect him one way or another anymore.

He's not Fin or Amaro, who could potentially lose it, and his emotional state was _definitely not_ comparable to that of the recently retired Elliot Stabler whose anger and disgust _so obviously_ raged beneath the surface.

But _this_ suspect, the one that's sitting in front of him now, is different. He recognizes the weary features, the wrinkled skin, head of once dark hair that time has turned silver, the knowledge of when TV was black and white, the Colts were still in Baltimore and Mickey Mantle was playing center field for the Yankees. It's like looking into a mirror, the insecurities he hides behind his acerbic wit, dark glasses, perfectly pressed suits and always shined up leather shoes, bubbling to the surface.

Words haven't stung him in – God only knows how long – but his burn; though, he'll _only_ acknowledge it silently.

"Are you telling me that _gorgeous blonde_ who had her hands all over you at my hotel's bar, would _actually_ give you the time of day if you both weren't cops working some undercover operation, Sargent? Because I'm telling you right now, she wouldn't, and you know it; deep down you do! You're old enough to be her father!"

He swallows thickly, knowing Rollins is outside the interrogation room, listening in _that_ one shoulder navy dress, but really he's swallowing because he knows the miscreant across from him is right. He's closer to her than the others, he's been inside her apartment, even kissed her on the cheek, but nothing _beyond_ friendly and polite gestures is going to _ever_ happen between them.

He doesn't acknowledge the suspect's remarks, he just shakes his head and says aloofly, "News flash; we're not talking about _me_, we're talking about _you_, and you're about to be booked on _double murder _charges, so save your sob story about you being too old for pretty girls and how you can love them better than their young boyfriends for the judge and the jury."

Without a second look, he walks out of the interrogation room.

It's hours later and he's finishing up the paperwork on the case. Leaning back in his chair, he rubs his forehead and reaches for two aspirin in his desk drawer and downs them with the help of a swig from the can of Coke he got from the vending machine who knows how long ago.

He thinks everyone's gone home until he hears Rollins' distinct Southern drawl say teasingly, "Well, how'd you know us Southern gals _love_ a man who drinks straight from the can, Sargent?"

His stomach clenches and he has to swallow again, lifting his head just barely to discretely look her over before he turns back to his paperwork. He knows she didn't do it for him, but if she's going to hang around he's thankful nonetheless, that she changed out of that damn dress and into what she normally wears; dark jeans and a plain long sleeved cotton shirt. The image of her slender, but still shapely legs will stay with him for a long time, he doesn't need another reminder of their beauty or the seemingly never ending miles of smooth alabaster skin the dress revealed.

"Yeah, that's me; swiggin' away." He remarks, tapping the half empty can with his pen.

"A Coke, huh?" She arches an elegant brow as she comes to lean against Fin's desk. Her pastel lips curve into a smile, her clear green eyes sparkling when she says, her voice still teasing, "You plan on drivin' home?"

He sighs as he closes eyes and rubs them behind the dark lenses of his glasses, his stomach clenching and his palms becoming sweaty. He normally enjoyed Rollins' company and talking with her; hell, he'd go as far as to call them friends (even before they _ever_ played Scrabble in her apartment weeks ago), but _tonight_ is not the night for her to be making friendly.

He swivels in his chair, turning to face her with the intention of ending this conversation. Pointedly, he looks at her over the rims of his dark glasses, "Shouldn't you be home by now, Detective? That was the _whole point_ of my offering to do the case related paperwork, you know."

She doesn't look affronted and her smile hasn't diminished any, "Thought your generosity was like The Great Pumpkin? I haven't watched Charlie Brown in a while now, but if I remember right, The Great Pumpkin only came around once a year, and you already did me one favor. So why don't you let me handle the rest of the paperwork, and you go on home?"

"You should have come by earlier," He quips. "I'm practically finished now."

"That's fine; I'll just wait till you're done, so I can give you a lift home. I can't be sure you'll make it on your own after drinking all that Coke."

"I was thinking of calling a cab." He says in jest, trying to ignore the tiny bursts of warmth underneath his skin when she laughs.

He's somewhat surprised she _actually_ stayed until he was finished with the paperwork. He was hoping she'd get bored, since they weren't talking, and tell him she had to go, but instead she didn't move from her spot by Fin's desk.

"You really didn't have to stay, and I think we both know there's no legitimate reason for you to drive me home."

"Stop your fussin', all right?" There's a hint of frustration in her normally easy tone as she shakes her head, strands of silken platinum hair (he can't help but remember touching) falling in front of her clear green eyes. "Can't a girl just return a favor? Or are you afraid, I'm gonna corner you into _finally_ givin' me that Scrabble re-match I've been eggin ya on about, and I'll wipe the floor with ya again? Is that it?"

Staring into her clear green eyes, so alive with warmth and sparkling with humor, he breathes in deeply and shakily releases the air he took in. he hasn't been in this position – actually _wanting_ a woman, to pursue _something_ with someone – since Sarah Logan, the reporter, and right now he doesn't want to think about how _long_ ago that was. In another time and another place, he'd pick now to reach for her, pull her against him and press his lips to hers to make certain she knew he _wasn't_ thinking about ducking out on her Scrabble re-match. But he wasn't _that_ man anymore, and hadn't been for quite some time; probably since he handed Billie Lou the divorce papers and left Charm City behind for good.

"You okay, John?" Her soft drawl brought him out of his head, and he smile sheepishly, ducking his head, "Sorry, did you say something, Rollins?"

Calling her by her last name is his way of distancing himself from whatever feelings have started to develop on his part. It's easier to think of her as his colleague by using her last name. She's the new girl from Atlanta, someone who still has a lot to learn about Special Victims, but not _Amanda_. Amanda is someone else entirely, and he's not going to go there; even in his head.

"I asked if you were okay," Her elegant brows furrow and her small nose scrunches, and damn it, if he can't stop himself from thinking it's cute. "You seemed a little lost there for a second. You still thinkin' about the case? If you are, I propose beer and that re-match. I had fun the last time we played, and I felt better too. Whaddya say?"

His heart clenches at how pretty she looks with her Kewpie features bathed in encouragement and hopefulness. She's looking nothing like she did earlier in the evening all dolled up to complete the "look" that went with that damn dress and the high heels. He doesn't know why he's torturing himself, but he lets himself imagine this – the way she looks now; relaxed, warm, comfortable – is what she looks like on weekends playing Scrabble with that neighbor kid she likes in her building; naturally pretty. You know the kind that makes other women hate her and want to claw her eyes out.

"Maybe some other time. I'm tired and just want to crash for the night." It's a lie; he'd rather stay up till God knows how long playing Scrabble, sharing beer after beer and talking and laughing like they did in her apartment, but it's ridiculous to think she genuinely wants to. A pretty young blonde like her had better things to do than to spend the night with an old man like him.

"Oh." All the encouragement and hopefulness is gone; replaced by a stiffen cordial air. "Are you sure?" She tries again and he thinks it's for his benefit more so than she's _really_ disappointed that he turned her down.

"Yeah."

"Okay." Her pastel lips are pursed tightly and she nods, turning on her heel to walk away. She stops in the doorway, clear green eyes a little brighter than moments before when she says, "The offer for the ride still stands, though, John."

Against his better judgment, he couldn't turn down her offer to give him a ride. It was irrational to think he'd disappoint her if he didn't say yes. She was just being the Southern Belle she was raised to be; nothing more and nothing less.

He's poised to climb out of her car, when he hears the distinct unbuckling of her seat belt. Looking over his shoulder, he arches a severe brow, "What are you doing?"

Her tone is obvious as she smiles, "Comin' up with ya; what's it look like I'm doing?"

Her pretty features soften and he feels heat course through his veins as she looks at him from under the impossibly long fringes of her eyelashes, "You walked me up, figured I could do the same for you."

He wants to protest, to follow through with what his better angels are telling him to do, but he can't.

Those pastel lips are smiling and those clear green eyes are sparkling, and it's just too damn much, and he's too tired and frustrated and well, if he's being honest, _lonely_ to decline the offer of her walking him up; despite knowing he should. He's only feeding his clearly one-sided need to be alone with her, and that's the worst thing he can do.

She's teasing when she bumps her hip against his and says, "Don't go shuttin' me out of your apartment. I showed you mine, you show me yours."

His stomach is like a coiled spring, his hands shake and he swallows as hard as he ever as. "You're lucky I'm a gentleman. Saying something like _that_ to the wrong man could get you in trouble, Amanda."

"Good thing I said it to you then." Her voice is low and like liquid heat rolling over his skin, and he has to let out a shaky breath.

"You should get home; it's late." His voice isn't nearly as strong as he wants it to be.

"I _should_ do a lot of things, but what about what I _want_ to do?"

He's pretty sure _all_ of this is happening in his head. She's not _actually_ moving closer, her hand _isn't_ cupping his cheek, her tongue _hasn't_ slipped from her mouth to wet her lips, and she's sure as hell _not_ whispering his name, "_John_," like she _wants_ him.

Her smell of kiwi and coconut is swirling all around him and he's not sure if he's groaning because she's so close or any second he'll wake up and be alone in his bed with the cold realization that _this_ is all a dream.

The feel of her lithe frame (soft in all the right places that belie hidden strength in those same places) presses against his lanky one, and how he's still _standing_ he doesn't know. Her other hand slides up his arm, fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his grey shirt as she leans in even closer their foreheads meeting, and lips barely centimeters away.

"Amanda..." He breathes out her name, blood pumping hard throughout his body from _feeling_ her shudder.

"I know what I want." The softness of her voice makes him close his eyes tightly. "I just wish I knew what _you_ want."

He knows he'll sound like a jackass and if she was Liv or any of his ex-wives or former lovers, she'd haul off and back hand him, but he can't stop himself from asking. His eyes open slowly and _somehow_ his stomach, that's a tightly coiled spring, still manages to contract from how her clear green eyes have darkened to a mossy green.

"If this is about being lonely..." He doesn't get the chance to finish as she shakes her head, several loose strands of her silken platinum hair fall against his face, and he has to breathe in the fresh scent of her shampoo; who knows if he'll _ever_ be this _close_ to her again.

"Guess I know what you want."

"No, actually you _don't_ know what I want."

"Then why don't you _tell _me." Her eyes blaze with frustration. "Cause I'm damn tired of chasin' my own tail! What that sleaze ball said in the interrogation room got to you, didn't it?" She says slowly, realization seeping into her pretty features. "That's why you kept tryin' to get me out of the squad room and wouldn't take me up on the Scrabble re-match. You don't think _I _could want _you_. Well, you're wrong."

Her voice is firm and her eyes are determined, like they were that night in the viewing room all those months ago, and his body shudders from the sight.

He's still unsure, his eyes downcast and head hanging low, but with the gentle tip of her hand to his chin, he's staring deep into those now darkened mossy green eyes. Her fingers spread across the skin of his cheek, heat flowing in their wake, until the skin is cupped by her entire delicately curved hand.

Her pastel lips are curved slightly, hinting at the bright smile he's come to know and her voice – slow, drawl more pronounced – is soft and coaxing, relaxing him and making him feel impossibly stiff at the same time, "Tell me what you want, John. We're on the same page here; I just need to hear you say it."

"You." The word tumbles off his lips shakily. His voice is a little stronger when he breathes in deeply and says in confirmation, "I want you, Amanda."

Her lips touch his first; tentative, unsure, and still, waiting for him to move his own. He does and then everything is slow; her lips coming alive against his, her tongue sinking into his mouth, his dancing with hers, his fingers trailing up her arm, to the back of her head and finally coming to rest in her silken platinum hair while her own fingers grasp the rough silver strands of his own as the kiss deepens.

When air becomes necessity, she's looking at him from under hooded eyes and with the most beautiful peach flush filling her cheeks as she breathes heavily. Her fingers slide away from his hair and play with the silk of his tie as soft laughter escapes her lips that now resemble crushed rose petals.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," The peach flush turns deeper and the elegant curve of her neck now matches her sculpted cheeks. "But I haven't been kissed like _that_ in a _long_ time."

"You're right; I don't believe you." He laughs with her, but the idea that all the men she's surely to have crossed paths with, haven't taken the time to kiss her slowly, is as crazy to him as the _'Single Bullet Theory.'_

"Whether you believe it or not, it's true." Her forehead comes to rest against his as she relinquishes his tie and lays both of her hands flat against his chest.

"Now what?" He asks after a long beat of silence stretches between them. He feels like he's gone back in time and is standing in front of his sixth grade crush Helen Rosenbaum, and he's not sure what's more ridiculous that he feels like this or that all three of the assassinations of JFK, MLK and RFK were found _not_ to be conspiracies.

One of her hands snakes up the front of his shirt to rest against the back of his neck, her fingertips idly playing with the hair at the nape. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip briefly, making him hold back the groan rising in his throat, and then she's moved her forehead away from his and her lips are inches away from his ear, "I know I wouldn't mind bein' kissed like _that_ again."

His lips curve wryly, "Neither would I."

She laughs again, and he wishes he was as funny as he thought he was just so he could be privy to that beautiful sound whenever he wants. She presses her lips to his ear, kissing the outer shell before whispering, "So kiss me like that again, John."

And that's what he does; kisses her soft, slow and lingering, until they break apart after who knows how long and she finally takes her leave from the hallway of his apartment.

He calls her about a half hour later, wanting to make sure she made it home okay, and he shakes his head after hanging up about how _far_ gone he is already.

_Note: The Single Bullet Theory refers to The Warren Commission's (the committee hired by President Lyndon Johnson to investigate the assassination of JFK) findings that JFK was wounded by one single bullet; thereby disproving that he was victim of a conspiracy._

_Helen Rosenbaum, according to an episode of Homicide: Life on the Street, was Munch's sixth grade crush. He tells his partner Meldrick Lewis about waking up from a dream where he's naked and wandering the halls of his middle school when he runs into her._


End file.
